Sophy gave Tilda and Miller orders to pack, then she sent and asked to
speak with Nurse Harding for a moment. She wished to know whether her
husband could see her, if he were in a sufficiently rational state for
her to talk with him. Anne replied that he had just had his fraction of
morphia, and that it was his best hour in the day.
"Well, Daphne?" he said, rather guiltily, when she entered. She
marvelled that he could call her "Daphne." It was like throwing the
flowers from a sacred grave into the mire. She sat down near him, and
said:
"I've come to tell you that I'm going with Bobby to Italy to-morrow."
He looked blank, not taking it in at first; then he scowled.
"I see. Shuffling off this marital coil with a vengeance, ain't you?"
"I'm going with Bobby because he needs me. But even if he didn't need
me, I should go. I will not sit by and see you destroy yourself."
"Yes. I can imagine that to hear of the process from a distance would be
more agreeable."
"I've tried with all my might to help you. You've only laughed at me. It
amused you to deceive me. I was no help to you. If I did help you in any
way, it was to ruin yourself."
"Strong words, my love. So you consider me a ruin?"
"Almost."
Her lips quivered. She closed them firmly. For his own good she was not
going to let that haggard face move her unduly.
"Mh. I see. Well, though I do not seem to appeal to your compassion, I
trust that I do to your sense of the picturesque. Ruins are supposed to
be romantic. However, a human ruin hasn't the same value in the
landscape as an architectural one. Human ruins are generally put under
ground, not on top of it. I dare say the Cecil Chesney ruin will be thus
disposed of. Shall you return for the ceremony, or have you decided to
live permanently in Italy?"
Sophy looked at him with a sort of impassioned hardness.
"I will come back when you are cured--when you have gone of your own
accord to a place where they can cure you. Until then--I will never come
back."
He looked at her, hiding his real shock under a harsh sarcasm.
"'These be news!'" he exclaimed dryly. "Unlike the leopard, you seem to
have been changing your spots--the spots on the sun of my happiness--the
little freckles on the fair lily of your character."
"I have changed," she said. "You have changed me."
"That's very interesting. Our strongest influence seems really to be our
unconscious influence. Fancy my having changed the dear partner of my
joys and sorrows to this semblance, and all the while being myself in
total ignorance of the change! Well, well! The world wags and we wag
with it. So you're determined to put off the old Adam--in other words,
Cecil Chesney?"
Sophy looked at him for a moment without answering, then she said
simply:
"Why should I want to be with you when you treat me like this? Why
should I risk my life for a man who doesn't love me?"
"So I don't love you, eh?"
"No."
"You really think that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you put a poisonous drug before me."
He flushed, biting his lip hard. Then he said in a cold, rough voice:
"Look here--am I to take this announcement seriously?"
"Yes."
"You mean you're really going to cut off to Italy and leave me in the
lurch--like a sick dog in a ditch?"
"I'm going to Italy to-morrow."
"God! you're a fine helpmate!" he cried savagely. "'Eyes take your fill
... lips take your last embrace.' Come here!" he barked suddenly,
tapping the side of the bed with his gaunt hand. "Come to your husband,
wifie, dear!"
Sophy stood up. "No," she said.
"What! You refuse me a chaste embrace?--even at parting? You're really a
sublime wife, ain't you?"
"I'm not a wife. I am myself. You are not my husband. You are not even
yourself. Until you are yourself I will not come near you. I will not
pretend to be your wife."
His face was livid--dreadful. He reared himself in the bed. All his huge
frame, so noticeably thinner, trembled. He flung out an arm towards the
door.
"Damn you! go, then!" he said behind his teeth. "If you're going, go!"
She was gone while he was yet speaking.
* * * * *
Dr. Carfew arrived at Dynehurst the next morning. Sophy was to leave for
the Continent that afternoon. He had a long conference with Lady
Wychcote, Gerald, Bellamy and Nurse Harding. Sophy was present but said
very little. When Lady Wychcote so far put aside her usual attitude of
haughty reserve as to urge the great specialist to take charge of her
son's case, he met her courteously but bluntly.
"Unless Mr. Chesney is put in one of the places that I provide for such
patients, I cannot do so, your ladyship," he said. "It would be quite
useless."
Then the question of committing Cecil to such a place, even without his
consent, was discussed. Lady Wychcote listened to the arguments for this
course with a moderation which she had not hitherto shown. When Carfew
had ended, by explaining at some length, for him, the sound reasons for
adopting such a measure in the present case, she sat very thoughtful.
All looked at her intently. At last she said:
"You really think that his mind may go, unless he is controlled in
time?"
"I do."
"And he is dangerous--to others--to himself?"
"Surely your ladyship has had proof of that."
"Do you mean that he might go to the length of--of self-destruction?"
"Neither his own life nor the lives of others can be safe with an
uncontrolled madman--whether his madness is temporary or permanent."
Lady Wychcote turned her lips inward. She was very pale. She had on no
rouge whatever to-day. At last she said in a thin voice:
"My own wishes can hardly stand against such a statement from such an
authority, Dr. Carfew. But there is my daughter-in-law to consult. Let
us hear her opinion."
Sophy turned quietly. She had been looking out of the window at the
great, yew-walled garden that swept back from the library windows. She
had been thinking how like graves the flower-beds looked. It was a
beautiful but sad garden. But she had also been listening attentively to
every word. The sudden yielding of her mother-in-law stirred a dark pool
of humour lying at the roots of her tragedy. She realised that Lady
Wychcote had decided to shift the self-assumed burden of her (Sophy's)
"wifely duty" on to the burly shoulders of the specialist.
"I am sure you will agree with us, Mrs. Chesney," Bellamy said eagerly.
"Yes--in one way," she answered. "I am sure that to be in a sanatorium
under Dr. Carfew's care is the only thing that can cure Cecil. But----"
She hesitated. They all continued to look at her intently. She flushed,
then said in a low, firm voice, "But I think it would be useless to put
him there by force. He would never forgive it. He would be
cured--yes--for the time being. But I know him. The moment that he was
free he would begin all over again--unless he went of his own will."
Even Carfew became rather excited.
"But my dear lady! Allow me----" And he began to overwhelm her with
scientific refutations of her theory. Bellamy looked aghast and
chagrined. Gerald began to fidget with the fixtures on the library
table, pressing his moustache between his lips and biting it as was his
habit when distressed. Anne Harding gazed at Sophy in blank amazement.
Then her brown little mouth pressed together. She was thinking hard.
"Do you mean to say," Lady Wychcote put in when Carfew had finished and
Sophy still sat silent, "that, after urging me to send for Dr. Carfew,
you will refuse to follow his advice? Refuse to join with me in
this--this--evidently necessary course?"
"I can't advise using force on Cecil, Lady Wychcote. It would only make
him hate us. It would do no lasting good. Only if he goes of his own
accord will it do good."
Lady Wychcote looked expressively at Carfew, whom she had suddenly
accepted as an ally. "You see what I have to contend with!" said this
look.
They argued with her quite uselessly. She left the room presently, still
resolved not to become a party to the removal of Cecil by force from
Dynehurst.
The great man shrugged his shoulders, as who should say, "The ways of
God and woman are past finding out." Then he looked at his watch. He had
still to see the "patient" who had so unexpectedly consented to an
interview. In accordance with Bellamy's urgent appeal he had consented
to put certain facts before Chesney with unvarnished plainness.
Chesney received him with his sketchy smile.
"Salaam," said he. "It is a relief to receive the Caliph himself, after
having had to put up for so long with the Chief Eunuch. At least you're
a proper male," he concluded, looking with approval at the lean, massive
form of the physician.
Carfew met this imperturbably. He put a few questions, which Chesney
fended with his usual half-droll, half-savage ironies, then he said:
"Has it ever occurred to you to think what the _end_ of your 'pleasant
vice' will be, Mr. Chesney?"
Cecil frowned. But the next instant he resumed his callous, mocking
expression.
"The 'ends' of things, O Guardian of the Faithful," said he, "are with
Allah. _He_ ties them into what bow-knots seemeth best to him."
"Shaitan can tie knots as well as Allah," replied Carfew, who was one of
the best read men in England, as well as one of her foremost scientists.
"He dips them in blood sometimes to warp them tighter," he added grimly.
"Speak more plainly to thy slave, O Chosen of Allah."
"I will," said Carfew. "From what you have said, so far--your allusion
to my confrere Bellamy in particular--I gather that you look upon lack
of virility as a thing to be scoffed at."
"Naturally. Does not Mahomet report Houris in paradise? There will be no
guardians of the Harem there I fancy, O great Caliph!"
"The Paradise of Morphia may begin with houris," said Carfew dryly, "but
it ends with horrors--sexless horrors. I would not jeer at sexlessness,
if I were you. A fellow-feeling should make you kind."
Fury made Cecil natural if not kind.
"What the hell are you after, you damned charlatan?" he demanded
savagely.
"I? I am after making myself clear, as an Irishman would say. I only
mean to warn you that the little instrument you prize so much--the
hypodermic syringe when used in connection with morphia--produces, in
the end, the unfortunate condition which you so deride. Manhood, in
every sense of the word, goes down before morphia, Mr. Chesney. I have
promised your mother and Dr. Bellamy to put things plainly to you.
Perhaps a natural curiosity as to the scientific aspect of your habit
may induce you to listen."
This was in fact the case. Carfew's words, while enraging Cecil, had
given him pause. He thrust out a sullen lip, glowering at the great man,
like Minotaur at one who has just given the yearly boat-load of virgins
a shove seaward.
"Well, damn it-- I admit a 'low curiosity.' Get on, can't you?"
Carfew "got on." Coolly and methodically, as though unrolling a neatly
illustrated script before the other's eyes, he presented to him a clear,
detailed picture of the morphinomaniac's descent of Avernus.
"Little by little, all will go but that one, ever-increasing desire," he
concluded; "honour first, then sex, then all human sympathy--then, a
small matter perhaps, after these others, but to a well-bred man
sufficiently unpleasant to contemplate--personal cleanliness. You will
become filthy--you will not care. One thing alone of heaven and earth
will be left you--the lust for morphia and its parasite--alcohol. So
these two were available, you might stink in the nostrils of God and
man--you would be quite indifferent. I remember," he broke off on
another tone, seeming not to see the dull, unwilling look of arrestment,
as it were, on Chesney's face, "I remember, years ago, reading a clever
book by Knatchbull-Hugessen, a little volume of fairy-tales. Among these
tales was one called 'Skitzland.' I rather suspect that he was having a
fling at us specialists in that sketch; but then there are those who
specialise on other things than science--morphia, for instance. To
Skitzland were supposed to go those who had sacrificed all senses to
one. A man in Skitzland would find himself only a huge ear, or an eye,
or a stomach, and so on. Well, Mr. Chesney"--he turned sideways in his
chair and fixed his cold, super-intelligent eyes on the sick
man's--"your fate in the Skitzland of morphia will be to exist only as
one huge, avid, diseased nerve-cell rank with the lust of morphia. Just
that. Nothing more. And this diseased nerve-cell which will be you would
slay Christ if He appeared again, and you thought the last dose of
morphia were secreted in the Seamless Garment. Good-morning."
And he was gone before Cecil could moisten his dry lips to reply.
Anne found him sullenly resentful of the doctor's visit.
"I hope you've packed that old prime faker back to the courts of
science," he grumbled, as she busied herself tidying his bed which he
had rumpled with his ill-humoured tossings. "I'll none of him nor his
damned mountebanking, that's flat."
"He'll none of _you_, unless you do as he wishes, and that's flatter,"
rejoined Anne tartly.
Chesney gave a whiff of utter contempt.
"Stick myself in one of his man-traps, I suppose you mean. I'll sign to
Mephisto with my blood first!--Just let 'em try it on!" he added
ominously.
"Oh you make me tired!--tired and sick," flashed Anne Harding. "You talk
and act as if we were all trying to lure you to destruction, instead of
wearing ourselves to the bone to save you from worse than death! Look
here----" She drew up a chair and sat down squarely on it, her little
black eyes like coals in which a red spark lingers. "_I'm_ not going to
stay on with you as things are, so I might just as well have my say
out-- I don't give a hang whether it's 'unprofessional' or not. So I'll
just tell you this: Your mother went back on you this morning. I mean
she went over to our side--we, who'd put you in a sanatorium ay or no.
'Twas your wife held out against it. And the more I think of it, the
more I believe she's right. Says she, 'No, I won't lend myself to using
force on him. Unless he goes of his own will it won't do any good.' I
didn't think so then. But I do now. If your own will is bent on
perdition, not all the other wills in the world are going to save you.
That's why I'm going to give you up. I'm too useful, thank God! to waste
my time on a man who's hell-bent on his own destruction."
She pushed the chair sharply back, and got up.
"Hold on!" cried Chesney as she turned away. He had listened to her
without interruption, a most peculiar expression on his face. "Did I
understand you to say that Sophy--that Mrs. Chesney, held out against
the lot of 'em?"
"You did. I was one of the 'lot of 'em,' so I ought to know," replied
Anne.
"She stood by me--in the face of all that pressure?"
"She stood up for what she believed in-- I don't think that's _you_,
just at present," said Anne viciously.
"Hold your tongue, spitfire, and let me think," returned Chesney, but
without anger. He lay brooding deeply for some moments. Then he said:
"Just go and ask Mrs. Chesney to come here a moment, will you?"
Anne consulted the bracelet watch.
"It's almost time for her to leave. Don't make her miss her train if I
fetch her."
"I'll thank you to do what I ask!" said Chesney, looking dangerous.
"It's not for you to make conditions when I wish to see my wife."
Anne glanced at him, then went meekly on the errand. She knew exactly
when to insert bandelleros and when to apply balm.
Sophy came at once. She looked pale but quiet in her dark brown
travelling gown and hat.
"You sent for me, but I was coming anyway to say good-by, Cecil," she
said, in her low voice.
He looked at her very strangely, she thought. She never remembered
having seen quite this expression on his face.
"It was not exactly to say good-by that I sent for you," he said after a
pause. His voice, too, was low. There was some restrained emotion in it,
whether anger or regret she could not tell. He continued:
"I sent for you in fact--to--to thank you, among other things."
"To thank me?"
She flushed cruelly. She thought he wished to bait her with his bitter
mockery for this last time. He saw her slight figure brace itself, and
her hands close nervously. He flushed himself.
"You needn't fear any brutishness on my part, not just now," he said,
still in that low voice. "I'm not sneering. I want to thank you for
holding out against the others this morning. Nurse Harding told me of
it."
"Ah," said Sophy. She drew a deep breath. "I told them it would be no
use," she added sadly.
"You were right. Thank you again."
His eyes ran over her travelling costume.
"So you're really going?" he said.
"Yes."
He was silent again. Then he said slowly:
"Well-- I'm going, too."
"What!" said Sophy. She did not understand. She looked frightened. Did
he mean that he would try to come with her--follow her?
"You misunderstand me--naturally," he said, with some bitterness. "I do
not mean that I am going with you--agreeable as that might be." He could
not suppress this mild sneer: his heart was very sore and angry under
his cooler mood. "I mean that your confounded magnanimousness has got
under my armour-- I'm going to man-handle myself just because you
wouldn't let me be man-handled by others."
Sophy held her breath. He knew that trick of hers. It meant that she was
moved to the quick and afraid to believe her own senses. His set look
broke a little.
"Yes, I mean it," he said rather gruffly. He sneered again, at himself
this time. "I don't blame you for looking sceptical-- I believe there's
a good authority that says, 'A liar shall not be believed though he
speak the truth.'"
White and red flame seemed to flicker over Sophy's face. She put up both
hands against her breast.
"_Cecil_...?" she said.
"Yes, my girl," he answered flippantly; "this wary old rat is going to
nip into the trap after the excellent bit of cheese you baited it with
this morning. Now don't--don't--for God's sake, don't make a fuss!" he
ended irritably.
But Sophy had flung herself on her knees beside the bed, hiding her
face--regardless of veil and hat. Her voice, smothered in the
bedclothes, reached him faintly:
"I'm not going to--don't be afraid-- I'm not going to-- I only wanted to
thank--to thank----"
"Me?" asked Chesney sardonically, yet with a hungrily tender look back
of his eyes that were bent on the crushed brown-velvet hat.
"No-- God!" said Sophy softly.
Then she rose to her feet again.
"I won't try to say anything," she murmured. "I think you know what I am
feeling----"
"Mh-- I couldn't go that far. Women are sealed volumes to an average
chap like me. Or, if they aren't sealed, they're written in some
hierophantic script that's beyond the poor layman."
He took suddenly a more natural tone.
"But if I've given you a whit of the satisfaction that your plucky stand
gave me--why, then, we're quits," he ended.
Sophy held out her hand.
"I shall be thinking of you all the time, Cecil."
"Thanks. You'll send a line now and then?"
"Indeed I will. Every day, if you like."
"No. That's too much to expect. I don't believe in setting kindness
tasks. Tell the little chap good-by for me. Hope Italy will make him
quite fit."
"I will. Good-by. Some day I'll-- I can't say things now."
"Don't try. I don't want it."
He hesitated, still holding her hand. Then flushed again darkly.
"Would it--er--go too much against the grain for you to give
the--er--condemned--a kiss?"
She stooped and kissed him warmly, lifting her veil, and pressing her
cheek to his. The great arms held her tight an instant, then pushed her
somewhat roughly away.
"Go--there's a good girl--please go----" he said.
This going of Sophy was very different from the last time that he had
bidden her from him.
She went; and ten minutes later Nurse Harding came in again.
Her patient had turned his face to the wall and flung an arm over it.
She glanced at him curiously from time to time, busying herself here and
there about the room in her mouse-like way. Then she drew up the
prescribed dose of poison into the little glass and metal instrument,
and went over to the bed.
"I say, sir," she began, almost shyly for Nurse Harding. "I wouldn't
bother you, but it's time for your hypo----"
He did not stir. Anne blinked.
"Want to play 'good boy' and lengthen the time, sir?"
No answer and no movement. Anne went softly and laid the syringe on the
table. Then she came back. She stood for a moment, biting her sharp
little knuckles and staring down at the broad back. Then she burst out:
"Mrs. Chesney's told me, sir."
Again she broke off, and again burst forth.
"I--I always said you were an Old Sport.... Now I'll--I'll be hanged--if
you ain't the sportiest Old Sport as ever was!"
She spun on her heel, and went out, clacking the door most
unprofessionally. She went to have two minutes of what she called a
"good blub." It was Sophy's joy, together with Chesney's sudden
capitulation, that had upset Nurse Harding. She had become excessively
attached to Sophy, and, in spite of all his fundamental brutality, she
had a "soft spot" for her patient.